Painter
by CryHope
Summary: SV. One Parter. The heart sees what the eyes cannot. "She had been unbreakable they said; the strongest and smartest agent the CIA ever had; an overachiever at heart; firm believer of good; most compassionate woman in the country; and a beautiful creature


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**Disclaimer: **Not mine… 

**Author: **Bo

**Rate: **PG

**Genre: **Angst/Romance

**Spoiler: **Reference to Full Disclosure

**Summary: **The heart sees what the eyes cannot. One-parter, Sydney POV. Set in probably early S3 (I dont really know where it shud go, since I have not seen S3 yet). It's more of descriptive of emotions, so if you're not into that kinda of stuff, this may not be your cup of tea.

**Recommended music:** "Painter's Song" "Humble Me" " Don't Miss You At All" by Norah Jones. "Clarity" "Wheel" by John Mayer. Preferably listen to these songs in this order: Painter, Don't Miss You At All, Humble Me, Wheel, Clarity.

**Thanks to: **Angela, Old Romantic, and Jules from sd-1.net for looking over this. 

**Dedication: **To Old Romantic, Happy B-day! To Hanna Hespe, who is a great ballerina and she'll ace her ballet exam this weekend. 

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**Painter****  
**  
A painting was created; no it was tattooed in her memory. It was always there, never can it be erased. Time may pass, events may unfold, new memories may be created, but the picture will forever be there. The colours will always be vibrant, the blend of each of the colours still smooth, the strokes of each brush could still be seen if one looks so closely, and sometimes the emotions that she secretly stored inside the painting would leak and envelop her.   
  


  
That morning was one of those times where her mind would casually pick the painting from her pile of memories and place it on top for her to see. Her conscious was awaken by an army of a thousand invisible arrows, all attacking her sleep deprived body and soul. She had tried to brush the tiny, annoying prickling sensations around her eyes away, but failed miserably when liquid conquered her eyes. She had sighed and rolled out of bed, surrendering to the early morning and admitting to herself that sleep would be an impossible mission.   
  


  
A cup was held in between her cold hands, her skin seeking warmth from the hot ceramic. She likes tea, flavoured ones, especially grapefruit with two teaspoons of sugar. He knows this. She had proven many times when he would make her a cup after a long day of work, whether it was just spent in a desk at JTF or testing her credibility as a field agent, or when they would sit outside her private terrace and share the comfortable silence under the night's sky.   
  


  
He knew not to serve her coffee unless it was after seven in the morning and she had to go to work that day. If not, he would gently wake her up with simple gestures. He would always start with tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ears, which caused her to wake from her slumber but her body would immediately relax under the familiar touch that was stroking her forehead ever so slightly. She would dig deeper into the covers, wishing that he would stop and leave her to the still awaiting sleep land yet wanting him to continue forever with the tender caressing. He would lean in then, searching her dry lips that were almost hidden by the pillow and gently press his own against hers. She would be the first one to smile, his lips still touching hers. He would address the first good morning in such a soft tone that it was meant for only her to hear, and not the rest of the world, for she knows that he never likes to greet the universe where the days ahead of them would be filled with never ending deception and all adjectives associating with the word evil.   
  


  
Then he would reach towards the night table and produce a cup of steaming hot tea with a larger smile on his face, his dimples greeting her with its own version of good morning. She would return the gesture, happily showing the canyons on her cheeks as her eyes thank him. The large cup would slip nicely into her awaiting hands, her mouth already anticipating the sweet liquid. And as she takes the first sip, her eyes would close in satisfaction, thanking the heavens above for another day to live and for the wonderful and perfect creature that sat next to her.   
  


  
Her eyes were closed, the sweet and acidic smell of the tea triggering the memory and the touch of warmth in her hands made her believe for a second that she was there, two years back into the past where the madness of Rambaldi was still tolerable. But one element was missing and that wasn't something that she could easily glance over.   
  


  
Her smile falters and her eyes snap open as a seagull screeched in the distance and a party of wind made way towards her. She was sitting on an old swing seat that she had found in a flea market when she was looking for furniture to make her new house 

seem more comfortable and resemble the feeling of home that she still cannot capture. She often came out to her back porch, where the beach stretched in front of her and she finds solitude among the quiet neighbourhood.   
  


  
The salt air cocooned her, taking her in and softly caressed her tired body and telling her that it's all right; it was always all right to relive the memory in her mind, to briefly remember the happy memories, and to feel. The waves crashed simultaneously every second; the meeting of sand and water accentuated by the loud collision that filled the silent early morning air. The murderous act of water continuously beating the perfect pattern of sands on the beach and then dragging it with them towards the merciless ocean soothes her aching heart.   
  


  
Ironically, the salt that was present in abundance all around her didn't affect her wounds. Then again, they were mental wounds, buried too deep within the walls of her own mind that nothing could touch it and all anyone could do was stand back and let it bleed till the cuts disappeared. But only she knows that her wounds were like a phoenix, at one-point dies just to be reborn the next minute. Nothing could or would ever heal these wounds for the antidote was forever lost from her, bound by one certificate, the law of her country, and the simple menacing gold ring.   
  


  
It is the constant painting and memories that attacks her with a vengeance since she learned the truth from the person who she had loathed almost as much as Sloane. The new knowledge seemed to be the key that unleashed the answers and the missing puzzle pieces began to fall nicely into place, creating another picture for her to analyze over and try to accept. Bits and pieces of her memory had started to come back since then. Memories of her missions for the Covenant, street signs that she guessed to be somewhere in Rome, her first meeting with Lazarey, but the one that prevent her from sleeping that night was when her mind had easily remembered the memory of walking towards a specific restaurant in Rome. Her mind had then casually associated the memory with another one, a painting she had long ago drew with invisible paint and canvas that covered the surface area and volume of her heart.   
  


  
The liquid burned her tongue, stinging her taste buds and cascading a hot trail down her throat. She smoothes the light blanket that was draped over her legs, as the wind began to get naughty and ruffled not only her hair but also the deep mahogany cloth. She shivered slightly as the rough wind grazed her exposed neck, feeling a tad bit foolish for not grabbing a sweater to cover her thin cotton white t-shirt. All of these tiny hints of feelings made it real however, finally admitting to herself that the numbness and compartmentalizing that she had done did nothing but destroy her already fading soul.   
  


  
She let out a heavy sigh, the mist of her hot breath carrying out into the air in visible cloud. Tilting her head back until the soft cushion catches her upper body, the young woman momentarily closed her eyes and then opened them to the night sky. It was nearly dawn, perhaps only half an hour away, yet the sky still held the mysterious colour of deep blue, the depth never ending. Thousands of her unshed tears littered the universe, begging her to not cry them for they are content to just merrily twinkle and be known to others as beautiful sparkling stars, not a symbol of someone's sadness. The world was filled with enough depression and unhappiness without the sky joining in too.   
  


  
She cast her gaze away from the night sky and to rest it upon the ocean that stretches toward eternity. The water reflects the darkness of the scene above it; stripes of white dancing along the shores signifying the air bubbles that were unfortunately stuck within the tumble and hustle of the wave. Millions of sand particles stacked against one another besides the ocean, contrasting greatly with its innocent colored cream with the sea usual colour of blue or the occasional tinted colour of green. But she wouldn't call it a beautiful shade of green like some people have described in the past when one looks at the ocean.   
  


  
The blue always invaded the green of the ocean and the sun always made it seems too dull, leaving the green without any characteristic. But the shade of green that she had been honoured to witness expressed thousands of emotions, the fire of life burning brightly behind his irises. Those who said that the eyes are the windows of the soul were correct. For a colour needs life to make it worthy of the title beautiful.   
  


  
Many painters mix and create different shades of colours to appropriately paint their drawings. She was a painter, slowly mixing and blending in colours of the universe on her pallet. Her brush was her hand, her heart became a canvas for her to be filled and be poured in her vision. The fact that she had never painted before didn't cross her mind. It was almost a natural thing for her to open her eyes, study the contour of his face, analyze the swirling emotions displayed upon his irises, and let her mind memorize the sight that was bestowed before her.   
  


  
Since the chain around her neck had been torn by justice and freed her from the slavery of the devil, he had taken the missing puzzle piece of her life and placed it in its rightful place every night beside her. She had fought for slumber every night when she was still cuffed to the man who murdered her fiancé, wanting every drop of rest that she could get in her hectic life. Yet, since he lay down next to her, equaling the bed with his weight, the blanket congruently shared, and the puzzle finally solved, she didn't mind those sleepless nights. For she took the time to paint his peaceful beauty and let the colour, the image to envelope her memory.   
  


  
Two perfect teardrops marked its trail down her face, the liquid jumping off the cliff of her chin and into the fabric of her shawl. The trails that were left behind were kissed by the wind, where it greedily deposits the sodium chloride from her tears into the bank of salts held by the air. The wind also swept away the remnants of her tears, evaporating the liquid and let it fly towards the heaven where her tears twinkled among those who have not been shed.   
  


  
She remembers running her fingers over the forest of his hair; tangles of soft wavy strands filling the creases of her hand; the material feeling light without the daily coating of gel. He always sighed in his sleep when her skin would softly graze his forehead, taking her time to brush away his worried lines and loving the way his face relaxed under her touch. Even in sleep, he was an amazing creature to look at. Thus her hands begged her to touch every exposed skin, to memorize every feature, and to feel his even breath upon her palm.   
  


  
Trailing a finger down from his forehead and letting her index finger to jump off the cliff of his nose, her finger found his soft lips. Lightly, she outline the curve of his mouth, remembering how it felt pressed upon her own and how perfect it is shaped underneath her touch. Pink shadowed the surface area, the skin slightly dried from the night air. She would resist the temptation to lean over and saturate the dry patches. Instead her finger would make contact with the stubble growing along the plane of his cheeks. The rough surface reminded her that everything she felt and touched had been real and that God had answered her only prayer.   
  


  
She felt her gaze drawn up to the silver patch of moonlight, highlighting his cheekbones and resting softly over his eyebrows. She pulled away her hand and tucked it instead underneath her cheek. The night had been cool, yet mild enough for her to open the glass door that connects her bedroom with her private terrace. The sky could not be seen from where she lay, the white veil obscuring her view fluttering gently to the music of the wind. But her attention is not with the sky that night. No, her mind and soul did not long for slumber at that moment either. Her whole being was looking, watching, and studying the occasional flicker of his eyelids.   
  


  
For they protect the window to the soul that had captured her essence and eternity. His windows were always opened for her, their green painted surface welcoming her. She had felt at home, like she had finally belonged whenever his eyes would drink her in and devoured her senses. The warmth and compassion that radiates through his irises kept her sane and made those late and cold meetings held in the dank warehouse bearable.   
  


  
Although she cannot see his moving eyes, she could feel his dream. She hoped, no she knew that he was dreaming a dream where evil had never been heard and the clouds had never been tainted with storms. She knew because dreams were reality that you lived for; dream was a sanctuary; dreams were the only thing that brought most people to live through their turbulent days and crawl underneath the sheet of slumber in the end. It's a cycle; you live your life, then escape in the bliss of dreams. And she hoped, she wished, that a part of his heaven on earth included her.

She imagined his eyes, fluttering about behind closed lids. She had woken up many times before, and had tried to remember, to capture the same shade of green that his eyes possessed. But every night, she would erase the previous shade of green, for they were not perfect or exact to the original. It never was, and never will be. His eyes were like gems of precious stones that can never be replica. They are unique, the blending of green in his irises sprinkled with soft strokes of gold stood independently against the backdrop of soft blue. 

His mood affects the alignment of each colour path. They dance and flirt with his feelings, creating a new canvas across his eyes for the emotion to display upon. She remembered the way the green would darken and the blue backdrop would become more dominant as he would concentrate during debriefs. She could imagine the specks of yellow that were coated with fear arriving among the green when he cried out her name across her comm. Wanting to rid off those fear from his eyes, she would always whispered to him that she was fine. She knew, without even looking at him, that those pesky yellow streaks had dimmed. 

And when he smiles, Heaven's light would shine through his irises. The rays of happiness would surround her as his eyes met hers and the warmth radiates through the air, around the tiny molecules of matter, and descended upon her heart. She could feel his happiness, his joy amongst the green ribbon that had tied around his windows' of soul. The wrinkles on his forehead were forgotten, the faint lines around his mouth would deepen as his smile grew until his dimples showed. His smile was her heaven on earth. 

And it hurts so much when each of those smiles was now directed towards another, a person who captured her heaven and locked up her gate towards pure bliss. Her sanity had been given to the devil again, her soul sold to the highest bidder. She became another object in the world of power and she had no immunity to the demons that were slowly making its way towards her box of memories. They tried to pry it away, to take her last remnants of life and dispose of it. But she held on and willed herself to protect what she had left of her life with all her might because what she is now is not living, but merely existing. 

They had tried to brainwash her, to erase who she was and renew her blood. Techniques were used against her, eating away at her flesh and soul, demanding her to break and surrender. At times, her body had begged her to just succumb to them if only for a minute of rest and peace. But her mind had put up a fight, a small voice chanting a foreign chant that had become her saviour. Her walls were doubled, each brick resisted more of the damage and kept away the gnawing sharp claws of reality from ever reaching her heart. For the fire that was burning brighter with each passing moment were her fuel to stay alive and took her life back from the thieves. 

Was it all worth it though? Thousands of questions had queued in front of her when her life smack her down and beat her with the awful truth. She had cried, she had fought; she had prayed that it was just another nightmare. But watching that tiny golden band dancing across his face as his hand pinched the bridge of his nose on the day of her resurrection, it was the cruellest joke life had ever played on her. 

Worst of all was that _she_ had chosen the path. She was the one who did not open her car door and instead let another woman filled in her space. She was the one who agreed on being a double agent again. She was the one who had too much, who had finally begged defeat from life. She was the one who erased the pain; looked the other way and wished for a life not knowing; living a life with missing history. 

She had been unbreakable they said; the strongest and smartest agent the CIA ever had; an overachiever at heart; firm believer of good; most compassionate woman in the country; and a beautiful creature created from a marriage tainted with lies and deceit. 

She was unbreakable because he was her armour. She was strong and smart because he had taught her about reality. She was an overachiever because she took great pleasure in seeing the pride in his eyes and her father. She cares for the world because he had told her, made her believe, that good conquers evil. She was not life's favourite person; but she lived everyday with a passion because he was there, next to her physically or mentally, or both. She was a beautiful person because he had whispered it softly to her soul. She felt beautiful, complete, and worthy because he was beautiful, had the glue that held the broken pieces of her life together, and having his mere presence in her life made her hard and long journey a worthy one.

The wind had picked up again, singing a different tune. Some of the wounds in her heart slowly close itself and the painting of her guardian angel was placed back into the stack of memories. The rising sun made her open her eyes and let the world into her mind again. And she saw him. 

It was impossible for him to be there, thus it must've been a daydream. But the figure had casually walked over to her direction, the sand sinking underneath his feet. His white khaki pants and white loose t-shirt made him looked like an angel, and perhaps he was. Nevertheless, he climbed up the stairs that separated her terrace floor from the sandy beach and casually sat down next to her on the swing. She felt no weight being transferred from the creature next to her to the seat but felt his presence. 

It was a dream, a mere figment of her imagination. The gentle sea breeze had finally sung a lullaby for her to sleep to, her exhaustion finally catching a toll on her body. It was not a reality; she was smart enough to know that he was not sitting beside her and was most likely still asleep beside the woman that he choose to be with for eternity. But the man's arm had crawled at the back of the swing set, resting his right hand lightly over her shoulder. It shuts the rational part of her mind and like a moth to a flame she drew closer. 

Her imaginary angel did not speak, nor did she attempt to address him. She could feel that it was a sacred moment that God had given her. It was a moment where she, as a human, must held dear and let the epiphany come. If God had intended to give her a moment of peace, God had achieved it. Because for the first time since she return from hell, she felt peace washing away the dirt and cobwebs of her soul. And then she felt it, the soft whispering voice of a soothing music. 

Sydney… 

With a simple sound of two syllables, her soul had fallen to its knees and lay vulnerable for the world, the universe, the Lord above. He had carved out a place for her, where the walls were made of the thickest materials, where the air penetrates safeness, innocence, and care, before she had fought the woman who took her best friend's identity. He had torn the walls now, taking her away from the place her soul had called home, and begged for her attention. 

_Syd…_

Tears sprang from her eyes, dripping over the earlier trails of teardrops. This time, the wind did not come and erase it. For her to hear him say it again so closely, it broke another barrier inside and she wondered just how weak she was to him, just how potent he was over her. It forced her to listen to him, to give him her undivided attention; to give him her breath; to give him a second, a minute, an hour, a day, a year, a decade, a century of her life; to give him eternity; to give him everything that she possessed on earth; to give him her body; to give him her soul. 

He spoke of many things with such a simple nickname. He reinstated her beliefs, her purpose, her meaning of existence. He made her strong and smart again. He reminded her of her promise to the world. He told her that evil would be vanquished by the good in her heart. He told her that she was his epitome of beauty and grace. He told her that he was proud of her. He told her that things happen for a reason, a purpose that mortals could only guess and be proven wrong by the higher powers. He made her to just believe, believe in faith when he had been blinded by grief. He told her to believe in the present. He told her to believe in the future. He told her to believe in herself. 

And she opened her eyes with a clean slate. 

The morning sun had turned the surface of the sea into a battlefield of a war between fire and water. The clash of yellow, orange, pink, red, blue, purple, and white made a messy yet unique pallet that the universe had created. The sun warm rays soaked her chilled bone and revived her blood. It made an announcement to the world that a new day has come. It was another chance for people to shape their future; another day for people to live. The thought usually pulled her heavy heart down and made her longed for the darkness of night. But that morning, she had been touched by her guardian angel. 

They sat there, enjoying the first few minutes of a brand new day as the distant rumbles of the city began to pick up its volume. The morning was a glorious one, with the sky now cleared from any of the night's clouds. Early joggers began to lay their marks on the beach. The breeze felt like a fresh bedsheet over her skin and a promise of better days were whispered to her. Time seemed to stop, the pace of her life stopped to take a breather. And in her mind, she had captured another painting and she named it perfection. 

She didn't mind as much when her cell phone lay ringing beside her. She knew that it must end at one point, this wonderful dream that she had somehow lived through with a conscious sense. She picked up the shrilling object and like always groaned when she saw the caller ID. The weird thing was that at the corner of her eyes, she saw him lifting a corner of his mouth into a small smile. Answering her phone with the usual line she was not surprised to hear Weiss on the other end. 

" You might want to get here sooner than you normally would Sleeping Beauty." 

" All right. I was up anyway," she replied rather defensively. 

She heard him snort on the other end then said, " Yea sure, and I just spent last night with Posh Spice". 

He had hung up on her before she could retaliate with a comeback. Shaking her head lightly, she stretched her body. Lifting her arms upwards and straightening her back, she heard the satisfying clicks of bones. She knew that when she opened her eyes after her phone conversation that he would not be there. Still, after bring her arms back down, she looks right and left and along the beach for his figure. Only the shining sun, seagulls, and early joggers were the occupants of the beach. 

The afghan had fallen from her shoulder and she warily stood up. It was just a touch, a thousandth of a second long of his touch on her shoulder. But it was a touch nonetheless. It reaffirms her that she did not fall asleep and that she had been dreaming. That she had experience the dream with a conscious mind, that she did not make things up. With a touch he had brought back what he had said to her. He had brought her great epiphany of life to her. And she had listened. 

The aftermath is a smile etched upon her face, showing the world her dimples, a new clarity upon her eyes, and a heart and soul that believes in things she had believed in two years ago. She felt renewed, and reborn again. Because he had come in spirit to fill in her blanks, cleanse her soul, and glue her back together. 

He gave her the strength to lift her head up high that morning and look forward to tomorrow. 

Most of all, he had given her the trust to believe in herself. 

And she did. She believed in herself. 

A painting was created, then hung on the door of her soul. The colors were vibrant, each strokes indicating a woman standing in front of a newborn sun with her figure tall and strong. Each brush stroke describes her journey and the emotion protects her from her own demons and the world. Time may pass, events may unfold, new memories will be created, but she knows that the painting would be there until faith finally smiled at her and would let her paint what her heart truly desires. 

~end~

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Thanks for reading!

Bo-


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